


Moon Drops And Meadow Muffins

by StellarLibraryLady



Series: Star Trek Narsarya B [10]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: A Midsummer Night's Dream - Freeform, AU, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Ancient Greece, Bickering, Chitons, Crossdressing, Dancing, Developing Relationship, Dressing in Drag, Explicit Language, Fauns & Satyrs, Flute playing, Flutes, Gauzy Dress, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Greek Temple - Freeform, Hillock, Humor, M/M, Man Dancing In A Dress, Man in a dress, Marsala Wine, McCoy Dancing, McCoy In A Dress, McCoy In Makeup, Meadows, Men in drag, Moon Drop Flowers, Morphodites, Narsarya B, Narsarya B "Land of the Lotus Flower", Narsarya B (Star Trek Series), Passionate Dancing, Pre-Relationship, Rude Awakenings, Rural Setting, Satyr Dance, Sexual Content, Sikinnis Dance, Slang, Spock In Satyr Costume, Spock Playing Flute, Star Trek Humor, Woodlands, bulls, honeybees, satyrs, sleeping, spones - Freeform, wood nymphs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-11 18:55:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11720451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StellarLibraryLady/pseuds/StellarLibraryLady
Summary: An accident in an Ancient Greek setting has left Spock thinking that he is a satyr wishing to seduce a wood nymph.  Guess who he thinks the wood nymph is?





	1. We've Got A Problem, Bones

How many of their conversations hadn't started the same way? McCoy had barely gotten seated with his bourbon neat when Kirk began unloading on him. Sometimes, being a father-confessor for your commander was a bitch. But Leonard McCoy would do anything for his friend Jim Kirk, so he would always give Kirk a fair hearing. What happened after that might not be so certain.

“Federation high command has a problem, Bones, so they’ve passed it on to me. Now, we’ve got a problem.”

“’We?!’” Leonard McCoy snorted. “I don’t know where you come up with this ‘we’ business, Jim. Not unless you’ve got a turd in your pocket.”

Kirk gave McCoy a lazy grin. That should’ve been McCoy’s first clue. As it was, he felt a claw of ice grip his heart. Kirk had the upper hand, and Kirk knew it.

“Oh, did I fail to mention that it involves you, too, Bones?”

“How come I don’t like the sounds of this, and I don’t even know what it is yet,” McCoy grumbled.

“You know Spock had that accident down on Narsarya B recently.”

“Sure. Bump on his head. I was his attending. Routine. Not even a concussion. A little rest and he was fine. Shut up his condescending mouth for a few days, which was a relief for all in earshot. Let him think about something more than harassing me all the time with all of his pissant logic.” McCoy shrugged. “What about it?”

“Well, his accident happened near that Greek temple in that replica of ancient Greece. All sorts of men and women in chitons were running around pretending that they were gods and goddesses from Classical Times. They were spouting poetry and saying wise thoughts and never, ever gossiping. Spock was in his element. He probably should‘ve lived back in the times of Plato and Aristotle.”

“Yeah, he would've been more in his element, wouldn't he?" McCoy frowned in thought. "What you're telling me explains a lot about his behavior after he received that bump on the head. I know that when I had Spock in sickbay, he was mumbling about needing to get back to Mount Olympus and wondering where his goatherd was. He said the lad was proving to be damn lazy and girl crazy and left the goats to wander around at will. The ‘damn’ was the part that amazed me, not his subject matter. Hell, I‘m used to him taking off on some rant that has no basis, so this was nothing new. But the 'damn,' well, that was something new from him.”

Kirk suddenly grinned, but McCoy ignored it. Kirk was probably thinking that McCoy was the one who was prone to take off on rants, that Spock was the one who stood back and surveyed McCoy’s performance with barely contained mirth.

McCoy plowed ahead. “I remember looking at Chapel, and we both shrugged. Neither one of us had ever heard Spock use that much profanity. I took it as residue from that Marsala wine he’d drunk right before he got dizzy, fell, and hit his head. Damn Vulcan can‘t hold his liquor when he finally finds one that affects him,” McCoy muttered.

“Apparently, Bones, his drunkenness and subsequent injury caused him to bond with the Ancient Greek atmosphere of the location, and he assumed an identity that is not his own. He decided that he belongs on Mount Olympus. That‘s why you haven‘t seen him around for a few days. He‘s down on Narsarya B, living near that Greek temple. He‘s gone native.”

“Huh?” McCoy shook his head to clear it. “He thinks that he’s a Greek god?”

“Worse than that. He looked in a hand mirror and decided that he was a satyr.”

“He did what?!”

Kirk shrugged. “It was a combination of coincidences, that’s all I know. Mount Olympus, the head blow, what his hand mirror was telling him.” 

“What are you saying, Jim? Spock thinks that he’s a satyr? Why should he think that?”

Kirk shrugged. “Well, the pointed ears, I suppose. He looked in the hand mirror and there they were. Pointed ears, so in his mind that made him a satyr.”

“What if the mirror had slipped and he’d spied his penis? Would he think that he was an eel hiding in a bushy thicket?”

“Hard telling, in his condition.”

“I thought that pointed ears meant that he was a Vulcan. You know, since he IS Vulcan, and Vulcans have pointed ears.”

“Well, you know that, and I know that. But somewhere along the line Spock got his mind mixed up about his heritage. Now he thinks that he’s a satyr.”

“That’ll come as quite a surprise to Sarek and Amanda,” McCoy muttered. “To them, Spock will go from Our Son, The Crown Prince to Our Son, The Sex Pervert.”

“It's kind of a wake-up call for any parent, don’t you think?”

McCoy frowned, trying to understand. “You mean, Spock thinks that he's a satyr, like in the half goat, half man from Greek mythology?”

“Yep.”

“The half goat, half man who likes to go around talking an innocent wood nymph into having wild, abandoned sex with him?”

“The same.”

“So, what you’re actually telling me is that Spock is horny as hell and has no recipient for his mighty erection.”

“Yep. That about covers it. And it really isn’t pon farr that's causing his tumescence.”

“Sounds like a different set of circumstances, as I understand it. Sounds like there‘s nothing steeped in tradition or ethical practices or even sacred about what‘s got a hold of his libido now,” McCoy muttered, deep in thought. “But why are you telling me all of this? Outside of the fact that I’m his doctor and friend, and this whole business is crazy as hell and should be written up in the medical books.”

“Because he thinks that you’re a wood nymph, Bones. His wood nymph.”

“He thinks what?!” McCoy thundered as he came hurtling out of his chair. 

“That you’re a woodland nymph, Bones. You know, the sweet, young, innocent maiden with the gauzy dress and the flowers twining through your hair. Moon drops, I believe they‘re called.”

“How in the hell did he come up with that image of me?!” 

“You treated him in sickbay. You were dressed in white. You touched him. You gave him sympathy and tender care. He felt love through your hands.”

“I do that to all my patients! I'm a sucker for someone in medical need, but that's where the attraction ends!" McCoy took a couple of deep breaths, but his eyes still looked wild. "I went from being a doctor to being a wood nymph to him?! How could his mind make a leap like that?!”

Kirk shrugged. “A combination of wine, woozy thinking, and a doctor who was an image from Spock’s Classical dreams.”

“Well, he’d better be waking up soon from his juvenile daydreams! I'm nobody's goddess, least of all his!”

“Wood nymphs are lesser than goddesses on Mount Olympus, but they seem to have more fun. They are spirits of nature shown as beautiful, young nubile maidens who love to dance and sing and are identified with a specific location. We have to let Spock live out his fantasies. We‘d find you your own hillock or forest glade there on Narsarya B near the Greek temple, and that area would be identified as yours so you and Spock can have your tryst.”

“Damn it, Jim, I’m a doctor, not part of a Greek pastoral play!”

“I know that, and you know that, but Spock doesn’t realize it. Not in his present frame of mind. We have to be careful, Bones. His mind is very fragile right now.”

“So is my credulity. This is all a little difficult to understand.” He glared at his placid looking captain. “And something tells me I haven’t heard the worst part of all this.” He frowned. “Why should the satyr, ah, Spock, think that I’m his nymph?”

“You’re going to be asked to do, ah, certain things.”

“I’m not liking this.”

“Some things that you might object to--”

“I’m really not liking this.”

“In fact, I believe that you’re going to be quite adamant about doing this--”

“Why don’t you just spit it out, Kirk?” McCoy growled with narrowed eyes.

“You need to wear a dress for Spock.”

“No!”

"I think you would look awfully sweet, with your hair all curly and tendrils hanging down and flowers woven through it."

"What tendrils hanging down? What curly hair? May I remind you that I've got a Federation issued haircut?! No way I could get even a kissy curl in this short stuff, let alone tendrils hanging down!"

"The magic of hairpieces and falls, Bones. I'm sure that Uhura and Chapel will be only too happy to help you achieve a girlish vision of yourself. They love to help out a fellow 'girl' with her hair and clothing and makeup."

"Oh, hell, makeup! I'd forgotten about that!"

"I think a lot of kohl around your eyes to achieve that innocent, yet slutty look."

"I'll never live this down," McCoy grumbled. "How in the hell am I supposed to run a sickbay if everyone is laughing at me?"

"In your usual genial, cheerful manner."

"You're laughing your head off, aren't you?!"

Kirk held up his hands in surrender. "I'd be only too willing to do it, but Spock wants you."

"Yeah, we'd hear a different story if he was after your ass!"

Kirk's warm eyes matched his lips as he crossed his arms and smiled at McCoy with affection. "I still say that you'll look awfully sweet."

"What do you know? You're permanently horny. You like anything in a skirt. Preferably with the skirt tossed in the corner, along with the rest of the girl's clothing."

“Come on, Bones. You‘ll look charming. I believe that your dress should be white to portray the sense of innocence about you.”

“Why in the hell would I be dressed like that?! Like I‘m innocent?” Realization dawned on McCoy. “No, no! No, no, no!”

“Spock wants to seduce you, Bones, and you have to let him.”

“Now, that’s carrying friendship and comradeship way and beyond the call of duty--”

“I’d do it, Bones, but he wants you. I’m jealous.”

“Like hell, you’re jealous! Your ass isn’t on the line! You‘re relieved! You don‘t have a randy half-goat, half-man coming at you, horny as hell!”

“Well, from depictions I’ve seen, sometimes all that the satyr does is pull the nymph’s leg aside and lick the nymph’s vagina.”

“Here’s news for you, Captain Kirk, in case you’ve never noticed! I am not sporting around a vagina between my legs! All I‘ve got down there is my lollipop, and I‘m not letting that raspy-tongued Vulcan devil lick it! Nobody, from you on up to the higher echelons of Federation brass, can force me to permit something like that happening! I think that I still have some say about who gets to be sporting around down between my legs!”

“Spock would be real gentle.”

“Are you shitting me?! He thinks he’s a satyr! Satyr and gentle somehow don’t go hand in hand, to my way of thinking!”

“The way I’m understanding about wood nymphs, they were a pretty promiscuous lot. But even they weren't always too pleased with the advances of satyrs. Various pieces of artwork show them fighting off attacks from satyrs.”

“That’s because they were satyrs and wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer! Wood nymphs probably had a reason to fight them off, and so will I!”

“The Federation high command would really like it if you’d cooperate.”

“I don‘t care if I have to kill the whole Federation high command, that Vulcan is not licking my penis! What if he decided to change me so I have a vagina that he could lick?!”

“Now, Bones, Spock’s teeth are sharp, I know, but--”

“Damn straight, they're sharp!”

“But he couldn’t chew you a vagina. You’d be way gone right after he bit off your penis. I’m sure you wouldn’t hang around for his next bite. He couldn‘t catch you to do anything else, like, say, chew out an indention that could become a vagina. You‘d have so much speed that the Olympic people would want you to enter marathons. Come on, Bones, think of it. You could be considered to be a goddess from then on. No more flying around in space, which you hate to do, anyway. No more trips in that nasty old transporter, which you’ve never understood on a practical level. You‘d really qualify for Mount Olympus, and the moon drops in your hair and the gauzy dress would put you over the edge. You could become immortal. You could spend eternity in the Greek temple on Narsarya B with people worshiping you and bringing you gifts.”

“Yeah, immortal me and my almost-vagina. You know, being a resident of Mount Olympus as a goddess really hasn’t been one of my ambitions. I never thought to put something like that on my bucket list.”

“But you’d be doing this for our friend Spock.”

“What in the hell does he have on you that would make you order me to do something like this?! Did he catch you screwing a goat?! Or a chicken?!”

“Federation wants to stay on good terms with the Vulcans and that means with Sarek. In order to stay on good terms with Sarek, we have to keep his son happy, or else our whole diplomatic house of cards with the Vulcans might collapse. Then the Vulcans might buddy-up with their cousins from the wilder side of the family, the Romulans, and cause supreme hell in that corner of the universe.”

“So, the peace of their galaxy depends on whether I let Spock with his magic tongue and sharp teeth have free reign at the site of my future vagina, is that what you’re saying?” His anger was palatable. Hell, whose wouldn’t be?

“Yeah, and if you could lie real still when he bites off your penis, it would be a real plus.”

“Just for argument’s sake,“ McCoy started, feeling like he was in the worst nightmare he’d ever dreamed. He felt like he was pleading the craziest case in the Court from Hell. “Saying Spock could bite off my penis in one clean snap and not have to chew if off--” He swallowed hard as he tried to clear that picture from his brain. “Won’t the blood flow kill me? And drown Spock? Whatever, he wouldn’t have a very clean field to leisurely lather with his tongue.”

“Maybe his tongue would be hot enough to cauterize the blood veins so they would close and stop the bleeding.”

McCoy squeezed his eyes shut and visibly shook. “Can you imagine how that would hurt?! First the biting and then the cauterizing? I’d die from that double shock. I’d sure as hell be puking my guts out. That mess of blood and puke should be enough to cool the ardor of any horny Vulcan who thinks he’s a satyr.”

“I’ll leave it to you to iron out the details.”

“Details?! Details?! Each of these amusing little items to you is more than just a detail to me! Tell you what! Volunteer Scotty! Spock likes Scotty, too, and I think that Scotty would be damn cute in a white gauzy dress! His eyes would be darling with moon drop flowers beside them!”

“Scotty would look cute as part of your court,” Kirk pondered thoughtfully. “And I’m sure he’d do it. For his friend Spock and for the peace of the Vulcan galaxy.” Kirk had himself convinced. “Sure, Scotty would be glad to help us out.”

“Of course, he would! His penis wouldn’t be in jeopardy!”

“Maybe it just would be simpler to let Spock sodomize you.”

“Simpler?!”

“Think of it! It would keep your penis intact.”

“What makes you think that I’d let the Vulcan at my ass?!”

Kirk shrugged. “It is more traditional.”

“Traditional?! That’s because biting off a penis to create a vagina has never been done before!”

“You’d be a pioneer, Bones,” Kirk said with a smile. “You’ve always wanted to be a pioneer, haven’t you? After all, here you are, out in space, being an explorer to all sorts of unknown worlds. You’d just be a pioneer in a new area.”

“I’d never considered being a pioneer in the way you‘re suggesting. It would be a posthumous honor.”

“I’m sure you can get something worked out for the good of everyone. You’re clever and inventive.’

“I’m glad that you have faith in me, Jim, but I don‘t know if I can follow orders this time. I just might have to resign and go back to Georgia. Then me and my penis can grow old.” He gave Kirk a stern look. “But together.” He pursed his lips. “There’s no way you can force me to do this.”

“No, there isn’t.”

“How come I have the feeling that you’re still holding an ace that I don’t know about?”

“I’m not ordering you, Bones. I’m asking.”

McCoy deflated. “Oh, hell, that’s worse.”

“Then you’ll do it?”

“For you, Kirk. Anything.”

“And for our friend Spock.”

McCoy grimaced. “Yeah, for him, too.”

Kirk slapped McCoy’s arm. “Thanks, Bones! I knew you’d come through. Oh, there is one other tiny detail--”

McCoy sighed. “There always is. What, now?”

“You have to learn to do the Sikinnis.”

“If that’s some kinky sex thing--”

“No, it’s a dance.”

That didn’t sound so bad, McCoy thought. “A dance?”

“A satyr dance.”

“I should’ve known. It is something kinky.”

“I know it’s sounds lewd because of the satyr connotation, but its melody goes back thousands of year. It has an Oriental rhythm and is quite sensuous.”

“That figures, if it’s associated with a satyr.”

“Spock is practicing the dance now so he can be a good satyr when he comes to seduce you.”

“He doesn’t have to practice on my account.”

“Bones, Spock has to go through this ritual so he can awaken from his trance properly.”

“Wouldn’t a kiss work as well?”

“That kind of thing only happens in fairy tales, Bones. This is reality we’re working with here.”

McCoy frowned. “Are you shitting me?! Reality?! Spock thinks he’s a satyr! I’m supposed to be a maiden waiting to be seduced out in the forest! What part of that seems real to you?! And what in the hell are you and Scotty gonna be? Field hands?!”

“That’s not a bad idea, Bones. Then he and I could keep an eye on you and Spock. He and I could do with a few lazy days down on the farm.”

“While you’re at it, find somebody to check the sanity of all of us who are involved in this mess, will you?! I’m starting to feel like I lost my grip on reality when I walked into your quarters about half an hour ago!”


	2. You Look Awfully Sweet, Bones

“You look awfully sweet, Bones.”

McCoy shifted the filmy white material that rustled around the shapely calves of his bare legs. “Shut up, Kirk, or you’ll be missing some teeth from that beautiful smile.”

“Whoa! Whoa!” Kirk protested with his hands raised. “Can’t a guy hand out a compliment to a lady anymore?!”

“Don’t know why I gotta have something filmy draped over my chest like this,” McCoy complained as he looked down at himself. “It isn’t like I’ve got anything to hide on my chest. I’m not even a decent A cup. No way I’m voluptuous.”

“It’s the mystery, Bones. There’s the illusion that something wonderful could be down on that lovely chest of yours. Perhaps lurking beneath all of that sheer fabric so artfully draped are a couple of the most luscious breasts ever to be seen in the universe. And nobody’s ever seen them before! Who will be the lucky fellow to first view all of their loveliness? I tell you, Bones, you’re a knockout. I’m starting to have a little interest, and I saw you while the magic was happening.”

McCoy looked down at himself, but this time he was looking with appreciation. “I do look pretty seductive and innocent, don’t I?”

“Take my word for it, Bones, you’re a knockout.”

McCoy held up the corners of the uneven hemline of the filmy dress that dodged and darted below and just above his knees. He pirouetted gracefully in a dainty circle and exposed brief, but tantalizing glimpses of his thighs. He dipped almost into a curtsy, then gave Kirk a flirty, satisfied look. “I feel so girly!” he announced as he batted his eyes heavy with mascara and eyeliner.

“And you look pretty girly, too. In fact, you’re kind of hot.”

McCoy simpered. “Now, don’t you be getting your hopes up there, sir. You will be surely disappointed. Alas, I cannot be yours. My heart is pledged to another.”

Kirk‘s eyes looked hooded while a lazy smile trailed across his full lips. “A guy can dream, can’t he?”

McCoy batted his eyes in his best Southern Belle manner. “I do declare, sir. You are setting my heart all a pitter patter.”

“And I’m afraid that you’re affecting other parts of me besides my heart.”

McCoy took a playful swipe at him. “Sir! Such things that you do say to a lady! Why, you’ll have me all a blushing!”

“And all that blushing becomes you, Bones. It puts a healthy color in your cheeks that I rarely see there.”

 

McCoy was lying in the partial sunlight, hoping that Spock would soon get here and they could get this charade on the road.

He’d draped himself over the little rise of ground in what he hoped was a come-hither expression. He’d flung one arm above his head and had one artfully lying across his abdomen. One leg was bent halfway up and lying on the side where the hand was above his head. That pose should wet the mouth and harden the, ah, nether regions of any half-man, half-goat who should happen to pass by the sweetly reposing maiden in her woodland bower.

The dappled sunlight soon made McCoy drowsy and he dozed off. 

Something snuffled in his face, and the hot breath blazed across his upper body again. Damn, that Vulcan must be in heat, McCoy thought. Half-asleep, he raised his hand to wipe the offending intruder away. Instead, he touched something hairy. Yup, Spock, er, the satyr.

Spock bellowed.

Damn bastard couldn’t wait! McCoy would set him straight, bellowing like that! And right in McCoy's face, too! McCoy didn’t care who or what Spock thought he was! Not even gods off Mount Olympus got away with this, let alone a lowly satyr! Nobody bellowed at McCoy!

Spock bellowed again, and the sound ended in the high soprano range and then only dogs could hear it.

What the hell?! No man made a noise like that, even if he was half Vulcan and in heat! Well, McCoy reconsidered, maybe if someone pinched the guy's balls.

McCoy’s eyes shot open. Then he stared into the slimy muzzle of the biggest creature he’d ever seen that close up.

Spock had changed some.

That was McCoy’s first thought.

His second thought was, I was expecting Spock with shaggy britches on his lower half with maybe horns on his head and a flute in his hands. I didn’t figure he’d have shaggy, curly hair all over. Plus, where in the hell did Spock get that face mask?! It sure as hell looked authentic for some sort of bovine. McCoy supposed that something that was half-goat would have a simpering, laughing, intelligent look on its sly, little face. The creature that was right in McCoy’s face just looked puzzled, and a little stupid. McCoy had seen many looks on Spock’s face, but never this kind.

McCoy’s third thought was, this isn’t Spock.

All three thoughts were correct, but McCoy couldn’t really collaborate the second one about Spock’s current attire since this creature three inches from his face indeed was not Spock.

If this wasn’t an addlepated Spock thinking he was a love starved satyr, then what in the hell was this creature not three inches from McCoy’s nose?!

McCoy started and gave a strangled cry. The creature tensed in return, snuffled louder, and blew a wet, sticky glob of snot across McCoy’s face.

McCoy fought the slimy mess away and managed to throw some of the snot back into the creature‘s face. The creature jerked. Nobody had ever thrown snot back at him before, especially cooling snot. The creature shook its head in disdain and slung some of the now clammy snot back at McCoy.

“What the hell?!” McCoy wiped at himself with disgust. “Why did ya do that for?!” he bellowed.

Alarmed itself, the creature bellowed back. He had one helluva set of lungs, McCoy decided.

Then McCoy could properly categorize the creature.

Bull!

“A-a-a-g-g!” McCoy asserted with opened mouth and wide-opened eyes.

The startled animal’s eyes widened, and the creature stepped backwards.

So did McCoy. Or tried to. He couldn’t get much traction with scandals on a sloping bank. He made more of a concerted effort and shot upwards. As he did so, he heard the rich ripping of finely woven material. His beautiful dress!

McCoy never knew that he could scramble backwards up a hillock. But he did.

The creature stood stunned. Good! McCoy thought as he gained his footing and took off into the forest at a dead run. McCoy had no idea what awaited him in the trees, just as long as the direction was away from the bull.

Interested, the bull trotted off behind McCoy. The actions of this strange creature intrigued the massive creature. The strange creature in the garment that looked like spider webs floating in the breeze or calf slobbers streaming from a milk bucket must know where adventures lay. The bull must follow this intriguing creature.

McCoy looked back. Oh, hell, a curious cow! he thought. Then he remembered what he’d seen hanging low between the creatures hind legs. McCoy was pretty certain what he’d seen wasn’t standard equipment for a cow. The ‘mister’ of the bovine world was McCoy’s new companion, not some lady from the cattle pen.

McCoy was suddenly in the meadow again as the tree cover disappeared, and the bull was right behind him. McCoy was running forward while looking over his shoulder at the advancing bull. He should have been watching where he was going. But he figured that with a meadow, there was nothing to run into like big trees in the forest.

Thunk!

Wrong. There had been something to run into, and McCoy had found it.

Then an ominous humming filled the air, and a cloud of flying insects headed for the man who had knocked their hive over and the innocent, curious bull that was running behind him.

McCoy didn’t realize that a big creature like a bull could pivot like that.

 

Scotty paused to wipe sweat from his face with the sleeve of his denim shirt and managed to shove his straw hat to the side of his head. “Are you sure this is what we’re supposed to be doing to monitor Dr. McCoy and Mr. Spock, Captain?”

Kirk set down his pitchfork on the end of the handle. “Dr. McCoy didn’t want us too close, shy, young thing that he is.”

“But couldn’t we simply wait for him in the shade with a couple of drinks?” Scotty asked, looking perplexed.

“As long as we’re here, we might as well get the farming experience.”

“But couldn’t we get it in the shade, sir? Must we be using old-fashioned pitchforks to gather the wheat straw into a stack? Surely, they’ve got machine that could do this task a lot quicker, easier, and more efficiently.”

“They do. They did back in the Twentieth Century, also, and before. But we’re getting the rustic angle.”

“If it’s all the same to you, Captain, my body is getting too old for manual labor.”

At that moment, Farmer Brown appeared with his own straw hat and pitchfork.

“Taking a break, men?”

“Just for a moment,” Kirk replied amiably. “Come to help us pitch hay?”

“I’m looking for Theodore.”

“Theodore?” Kirk echoed.

“My pet bull. Gentle as a lamb. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, but probably looks scary as hell with those pointed horns.”

“So, Theodore is missing?” Kirk was amused by the farmer’s naming a bull.

“That’s right. He’s not in his pen, and I’m worried. He’s a nervous creature, kind of flighty, actually. Curious as hell, too. Sometimes, that‘s a bad combination.”

At that moment, Kirk was distracted by something beyond Farmer Brown’s shoulder. Kirk frowned. “What the hell--”

Brown and Scotty looked in the direction Kirk was looking.

A huge bull was running across the open meadow with Dr. McCoy running right behind him.

“Why in the hell is that crazy woman chasing my bull?!” Farmer Brown demanded. “Theodore doesn’t service human females, only cows! I don‘t care what those damn Earthlings are expecting with their orgies nowadays!”

“Captain Kirk, that’s--”

“I know, Scotty.” Kirk looked at Brown. “I doubt if that woman is chasing Theodore. And that’s no woman.”

Brown stared at Kirk without comprehension. “What did you say? That’s no woman? Is it one of those morphodites I‘ve heard about, then?”

“No, it’s a man. And I think the word you’re searching for is hermaphrodite.”

“That still doesn’t tell me why in the hell he’s chasing my bull. I don’t know what he’s planning on doing with Theodore if and when he catches him. That probably has Theodore worried, too. Crazy man all dressed up like a damn fairy chasing him. That‘d make any bull worth his salt take out without asking questions.” 

Kirk couldn’t correct Brown on that assumption. McCoy did look like a woodland fairy, all dressed up in that white, trailing gauze. Granted, that gauze looked a little rumpled now and must be ripped in places. Kirk didn’t remember it being quite that long. Maybe Theodore had helped it unravel by hooking it on his horns. McCoy could probably clear up a lot of their questions, but he seemed a little busy now.

At that moment, McCoy began swatting at his head and Theodore let out a bellow.

“I think that they’re being chased by bees,” Scotty said.

“Ain’t no bees around except for my tame honeybees. I got some hives a little ways from here. They wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Brown said.

“Flies, no,” Kirk said, starting to feel the humor of the situation. “They seem to be plenty pissed off at a man and a bull at the moment, though.”

“They were probably attacked. They are probably protecting themselves and driving off invaders.” Brown glared at Kirk. “Every creature has a right to do that.”

“Maybe Theodore started it,” Kirk said lamely.

“Now, that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard a creature with two feet say! Didn‘t I just say that Theodore is a gentle creature?!” Brown retorted. “I misjudged you, stranger. I thought you looked real smart when I first saw you. Shows how a person can be fooled by first impressions.”

Kirk could feel Scotty grinning beside him, but decided not to correct Brown. He’d just given Brown too much evidence to the contrary.

“Where do you reckon they’re headed?” Kirk asked.

“There’s a creek at the bottom of the hill. Theodore either knows that, or can smell the water.” Brown glared at Kirk. “I doubt if your damn morphodite can do that!”

“No, he can’t,” Kirk agreed, barely being able to keep from laughing. Scotty smirked beside him. McCoy was never going to be able to live all of this down.

 

Brown led the shivering Theodore out of the water while Kirk and Scotty helped a dripping McCoy ashore. His white, gauzy dress hung in sodden tatters plastered to his body. His hair was sopping wet and his mascara was running down his face. He looked in no condition to be meeting a god, or even a lesser creature such as a satyr with the hots for him.

On the bank, Kirk held McCoy upright. “Bones! Are you alright?!“

McCoy lifted his dripping head. Kirk and Scotty both gasped. McCoy’s face and shoulders and arms were puffy with bee stings.

“Bones! Are you allergic to bee stings?!” Kirk demanded.

“No, thank goodness! Otherwise, I’d be headed for heart failure.”

“How did you and the bull meet up, and how come you stirred up a beehive?”

“The damn bull found me! I was just lying there, waiting for my rendezvous and fell asleep. I was rudely awakened by the male cow over there--” He nodded toward Theodore who was being soothed by Farmer Brown in a soft voice.

“Male cow?” Scotty echoed.

“Oh, that’s what farmers sometimes call bulls when they want to have the illusion that all that’s going on in the breeding pen is a tea party! You’ll hear them refer to boars as male hogs, too! There’s whole generations of women who grew up not knowing about boars and bulls, but they sure as hell knew about male hogs and male cows!”

“I’m from Iowa,” Kirk said smartly. “I’d heard about male hogs and male cows.”

Farmer Brown walked up and glared at McCoy. “You gave Theodore quite a start, Mister… Miss… or whatever in the hell you are!”

“Theodore? Theodore? Who in the hell is Theodore?” McCoy demanded.

“My bull! And you gave him quite a start!”

“I gave Theodore quite a start?! I gave Theodore quite a start! What in blue blazin‘ hell do you think Theodore did to me?!”

“Bones--”

“He scared the hell out of me, blowing in my face like that! With snot, no less! I couldn’t figure out what was doing on! Then I realized that I was three inches from a bull in its prime! It‘s a wonder that the back of this white dress isn‘t an earthy brown color now! Painted from the inside out!”

“Bones, we have to get you treated for your bee stings.” He glanced at Brown and his bull. “Theodore looks like he just wants to get back to his pen and forget about today’s adventure.”

“I’m hoping he’ll be able to service those cows that are coming in tomorrow,” Brown remarked with worry on his face. “Generally, he perks up when he smells them, but your friend here might have wrecked him permanently.”

“All I could see when I opened my eyes was a bull muzzle and a bag hanging way back between his legs. I could just imagine what that was attached to. Anyway, I didn’t want any part of it, even if Spock was in dire need of my solicitude. I didn’t care if Spock stayed a satyr forever, I wasn’t going to be subjected to the working end of that animal.”

“You thought that was Spock?!” Kirk demanded.

“What was I to think?! I was seeing him at awfully close range!”

“I expect Spock would be proud if he thought that you thought that he was that endowed. On the other hand, he might be daunted.” Kirk gave Theodore a glance. “I doubt if a mere man could compete with Theodore in that area.”

“May I remind you, as Spock would, Jim, that Spock is also half Vulcan. Who knows how those guys are hung.”

“Yeah, but Sarek always seemed to be able to walk around with his knees fairly close together and didn’t seem to be bowlegged as if he had to make a lot of room for an oversized package.”

“I never did think about that before, Jim.”

“What’s that, Bones?”

“Cowboys always claim that they are bowlegged from horseback riding. Maybe it’s just because they are hung like billy goats.” He had a sudden thought. “Maybe that’s why they wear chaps!”

“I doubt it, Bones. I think chaps have something to do with avoiding sagebrush and cactus.”

“I think I’d like to lie down in the mud at the bottom of that creek,” McCoy complained. “I think that it’d take the hurting right out of these stings. And it’d be cool and soothing.”

“No, we’re getting you back to sickbay. Besides, we have to try to salvage that dress. Nyota and Christine are going to want to wring your neck when they see what you did to all of their handiwork.”

“Theodore helped,” McCoy grumbled.

“Now, don’t start blaming an innocent animal, Bones! You might’ve traumatized a prize bull so much that he won’t be able to perform his breeding purposes.”

“Boy, don’t let that get around! All kinds of women will be blaming me for their husbands not being able to do their duty in the bedroom.”

“You have one helluva life, do you know that, Doctor?” Kirk said with aspiration with his hands on his hips.

“Well, I’m glad that someone is finally admitting it!”

Scotty grinned as he followed them. It was almost like listening to McCoy and Spock growling at each other.


	3. Where In The Hell Was The Vulcan?!

“Where in the hell was the Vulcan?!” McCoy demanded of Jim Kirk as he tried to sit quietly in sickbay while he was being treated for bee stings. 

Christine Chapel was ministering to him while Jim Kirk watched. Divorced from the main players was Nyota Uhura and Montgomery Scott who stood several feet away from McCoy’s biobed. Uhura looked angry as she glared at McCoy. Anyone could tell that she had no sympathy for his numerous bee stings and horrendous adventures that day. Scotty simply looked perplexed and very uncomfortable with the whole situation. He was probably wishing he was back down with the engines of the Enteprise.

“Spock was unavoidably detained,” Kirk answered McCoy.

“Unavoidably detained?!” McCoy thundered back as he rounded on Kirk. “He was the one who cooked up this whole idea! Not me! He was the one who conked himself in the head and decided that he was part of the gang hanging out near Mount Olympus! He was the one wanting this little tryst with a wood nymph, not me! I've got other things I could be doing! Curing plagues! Researching new cures! But I drop everything so I can help a friend! Putting myself at his beck and call, even though I could be doing a thousand other things! And now he’s unavoidably detained?! Shows how considerate he is of my time! Well, I certainly hope he can manage to fit me into his tight schedule sometime in the immediate future!”

“Bones--”

Behind Kirk, Scotty rolled his eyes in alarm at Uhura, but she simply huffed and rolled her eyes in disdain at the ceiling.

“Dr. McCoy. Please,” Chapel admonished. “I am nearly finished working on your bee stings. Won‘t you please sit still until I‘m done?”

“Sorry,” he grumbled.

“Now, I know they hurt, and the venom is causing a rise in your body temperature. So that’s making you uncomfortable, also. Cool water would be very soothing and help lower your temperature. Perhaps a cool bath with baking soda--” 

“Who in the hell’s the doctor around here, anyway?!” McCoy thundered again as he jerked around to look at Nurse Chapel.

“I am! And you are my patient!” Chapel thundered back. “Now, I want you to sit quietly while I finish! Please have enough consideration for your caregiver!”

“Yes, ma’am,” McCoy grumbled as he froze in place. “It’s a travesty! Treating an injured man so brazenly. And a sick man, at that. I‘ve probably got a couple degrees of temperature, and that creek water chilled me. That‘s a bad combination, but is anybody paying any lick of attention to the concerns of the patient?! Oh, no! Fat chance of that!” 

“Dr. McCoy, I am warning you for the last time!“ Chapel said sternly. “The next time, I will not warn you. Instead, I will give you a hypo to the neck, just as gently as you administer one to Captain Kirk!“

“Brazen nurse!“ McCoy muttered. “Helluva way to run a sickbay!“ But he sat quietly.

“Chapel,” Kirk said with awe. “How did you do that?”

Chapel looked pleased with herself. “I merely used his tactics on him, Captain.”

“And they worked. Like a charm.”

“Don’t encourage her, Jim,” McCoy pleaded. “I’m at the bottom of the pecking order around here the way it is. Chapel sure as hell doesn’t need any help from you.”

“Well, Nyota and I are a little peeved, Doctor. You weren’t too careful with that wonderful dress that we fixed for you.“

“At the time, I had more on my mind than the welfare of my clothing. I was more concerned with the welfare of the guy wearing it.“

“Be that as it may, we are a little put out about what happened to that lovely frock. Now, by rights we should turn our backs on you and let you wear some old gunnysack held together with staples.“

McCoy got a mental image of the kind of dress she was describing. He bet it was itchy on the skin. It probably chaffed, too, and wouldn’t hang or cling as alluringly as the first dress. A gunnysack dress would probably just hang there, occupying space. It would probably wear McCoy, instead of the other way around.

“Despite our anger, Nyota and I are willing to help you again.“

“I do appreciate that, Christine.“ And McCoy meant it. The thought of that gunnysack dress would probably haunt his dreams for awhile.

“We are working on another dress for you, Dr. McCoy. Be more careful with this one, will you?” Chapel demanded.

“Keep the bulls penned up, and I might have a chance to follow that request!”

Chapel stopped her work and put her hands on her hips. “You were the one wearing the dress, not the bull! Do you feel any responsibility for the care of his horns?! Do you see to it that he gets the proper rations in his feed?! Or change the straw in his stall?! Do you even muck out his stall?!” 

“I doubt if the bull would let me close enough to do any of those things,“ he muttered. He thought that all of her questions were rhetorical, but just in case, McCoy thought he better cover his bases. He didn’t want to anger Chapel any more than she already was.

Appeased for the moment by McCoy’s meekness, Chapel went back to her ministrations on his injuries. “Don’t be blaming your messiness and recklessness on something else! That poor bull! He was just curious what you were doing out there in the meadow, stretched out for some sordid frolicking! From the way I’m understanding it, you were even the one who knocked over the beehive! Not the bull!”

“I don’t know what your problem is. It was just a dress. You just converted a simple Greek chiton with a few quick alterations. It already had a slightly gathered skirt and a sleeveless over blouse belted in the middle. Then you just added a few doodads and hooked some material to my elbows and wrists,” he said as he demonstrated with his hand making shapes in the air.

“You want to take this one, Nyota?” Chapel asked Uhura who had been silently leaning against the nearby wall with her arms crossed over her chest and her eyebrows raised in disdain. “I might forget myself and use a scalpel for a different purpose than to save lives.”

Uhura pushed away from the wall. “Gladly!”

McCoy knew he was in trouble. Uhura looked like she had everything she needed for battle except a sword strapped to her side. McCoy had a hunch that she could put her hands on a sword easily enough if she wanted one. He pitied the man who got in her way if she was seeking that sword.

“Dr. McCoy, for your information, Christine and I did more than ‘convert a simple Greek chiton with a few quick alterations!’ While the soft lay of the silhouettes of the two garments is basically the same, we had to do quite a few changes to ‘convert a simple Greek Chiton’ into a dress fit for a wood nymph!”

“I’m sure that Spock wouldn’t have known if--”

Uhura‘s dark eyes flared. “Christine and I would have known! We take pride in our work, in case you do not know that fact!”

“I’m beginning to realize it, though, and have a whole new appreciation--”

“We would not have let you out that door in something less than perfect!”

“I sincerely appre--”

“And! And, it had to be refashioned to fit a man’s body! In case you do not realize the fact, Doctor, you do have a man’s body!”

“Well, I always figured that I--”

“I believe that I am talking!”

McCoy shrank into himself. “Yes, ma’am.”

“We had to raise the hemline from ankle length to knee length. That might have been simple, but--” Uhura paused dramatically.

McCoy didn’t know what that ‘but’ was going to entail, but he figured that he’d better be probably appreciative of the fact. A glance out of the corner of his eye showed him that Kirk was off to the side and was finding too much fun to be gotten out of this little scene. Just wait until Kirk wound up in sickbay again. McCoy would get his revenge then. Oh, it wouldn’t happen when Kirk came in wounded or ill or feeling dispirited. McCoy was not one to hit a man when he was down, unlike other people who did not labor under that personal rule of conduct. But McCoy would get his revenge. Maybe sometime when Kirk was due for a physical. Ah, yes, something routine. Maybe McCoy would broadly hint that retribution and revenge were coming. And Kirk wouldn’t know when it would happen. Oh, no, it wouldn’t be the first chance that McCoy got. Oh, no! McCoy would let Kirk stew a little, not knowing when McCoy would spring the trap. And then, when Kirk figured that McCoy had forgotten, then snap! The trap would be sprung, and one hapless Starfleet captain would struggle to no avail! And then McCoy would savor the sweet taste of revenge! The one who laughs last laughs the--

“But we had to make the hem uneven,” Uhura was continuing. “That’s how a wood nymph’s dress is made! With an uneven hem! It’s romantic, in case you didn’t know that fact, Doctor!“

McCoy opened his mouth to admit ignorance, but Uhura plowed onward with her rant on woodland fashion.

“And we ran a thin strip of material from the outside of your shoulders to the outside of your elbows and then to the outside of your wrists and secured them with bands. It had to be long enough so it didn‘t rip when you crossed your arms, yet it had to blouse gracefully away from your arms when you held your arms open or up.” Her eyes snapped with dark fires. “And you aren‘t known for having the most graceful motions.”

Chapel chimed in. “Don’t forget all of that clever folding and stitching we did so that the bodice would not expose the fact that, for a woman, you’re flat-chested as hell, Doctor! Pardon my word usage, but it was difficult.”

“We had to add a certain fullness,” Uhura continued. “That was necessary in order to suggest that the body underneath was filling out the garment when it really wasn’t.” 

“Give the peons a little freedom, and it goes to their heads,” McCoy grumbled.

“What?! What are you saying, Doctor?! Are you forgetting that I can do this treatment the easy way or the hard way?!”

“Christine, there’s no hard treatment for bee stings!”

Chapel‘s eyes blazed. “Wanna bet?!”

“Ah, Bones?” Kirk interceded. “I wouldn’t be daring someone who’s treating me. She probably knows pressure points.”

“She does,” McCoy muttered. “And she’ll use them, if she wants. She‘s worse than the Vulcan with his nerve pinch.”

“Or you are with a hypo to my neck,” Kirk said as he unconsciously rolled his head on his neck. “You can get damn vicious with those. You‘re always coming up on me with a hypo when I least suspect it.”

“Well, you won’t hold still and let me administer them probably. If you didn’t need the medication, I wouldn’t give it to you.”

“I still think you enjoy that power you have over me. Compared to the way you treat me, Chapel was being nice to you.”

“She’s still acting like a little Hitler to me,” McCoy grumbled.

“Damn straight!" she barked, using one of McCoy's favorite expressions. "You’re my patient, and what I say, goes!” She looked from one to the other, her eyes blazing. “Any questions?!”

“We’re fine, Christine. Just fine.” But Kirk’s eyes were twinkling.

“Alright. Just so we’re straight on that.” Chapel normally did not like conflict and was rather meek. But occasionally, just occasionally, she lost her temper and it spilled out on all sides of her. “Just sit here for awhile until you feel strong enough. I’m going to see to the rest of my patients.”

“I can’t believe that she’s carrying on like this,” McCoy said in a low voice to Kirk so he wouldn’t be overheard. It was true that Chapel had moved off and left McCoy to rest, but he wasn’t taking any chances. She still might turn and attack again without warning.

“She worries about you, Bones. She doesn’t like to see you injured.”

“It was bee stings. I wasn’t going to die from it.”

“But you might have. Stranger things have happened.”

“I don’t know, Jim. She was more angry than worried. I‘ve seen her worried about me before, and she couldn‘t stop petting me and plying me with food and smothering me with kindness. There was danger that I was going to be deprived of oxygen because there wasn't any room for me to breathe. I really didn‘t see many signs of that kind of behavior from her in the last hour.”

“Well, there was that business with the fancy dress that you ruined.”

McCoy grunted in assent, but wasn’t thoroughly convinced.

“I understand that the material of that dress is difficult to work with, Bones. Then it sounds like those alterations were pretty difficult to do. I’d be real careful with the second dress. The ladies might not too willing to whip you up a third one.”

“Tell that to the overheated satyr who’s supposedly headed my way. Someday.”

“You’re disappointed, aren’t you?!”

“Well, ah, I figure that something like this little liaison takes a certain mindset. I had myself all worked up for a big production with Spock, then I ran a marathon with a bull, instead. It’s a little unsettling. Where in the hell was the Vulcan, anyway? He was the one wanting this command performance.” Remembering, he glanced at Kirk. “You never did say how he was so unavoidably delayed.”

“Well, he felt like he was still pretty rusty with his flute playing.”

“Flute playing?! What the hell does it matter if he can play the flute?!”

“Bones. It goes with his image.”

“I suppose I should be happy that he isn’t waiting to grow cloven hooves for the occasion." 

“Bones. Spock wants to be perfect for you.” Just as you are wanting to be perfect for him, but Kirk thought it might be prudent not to bring that fact out into the open. McCoy was growling about all of the preparations, but he was going along with everything. Maybe it was best that McCoy didn’t realize that everyone else knew that.

“He wants to charm you with his flute playing.”

“You might inform him for me that his flute playing ability will be about the last thing I’ll be noticing. If he really wants to improve some useful techniques, have him look at French postcards or watch porn movies. It‘ll put him in the right mindset, too.”

“I don’t want to embarrass him, Bones. A man doesn’t like to admit that he’s that much of a novice about lovemaking.”

“I think he’ll be able to figure it out! People have been muddling along on instinct for thousands of years without instruction manuals in the bedroom or tepee or cave, and the human race still managed not to extinguish itself out! Looks like one damn Vulcan could get some basic facts figured out! Hell, he’s had biology! He’s been around animals in the wild! Looks like he would’ve caught some of them doing something 'in flagrante delicto!’” He grimaced. “Lions! Tigers! Monkeys! Oh, my! Everything is accounted for and doing nicely in the bedroom, except for one satyr and one woodland nymph!”

“Bones. It’s alright,” Kirk said with a smile. “I know that these delays are frustrating. You know, between you and me, I wouldn’t mind a little rendezvous with Spock, myself. Especially, if he thought that he was an oversexed satyr and I was a woodland nymph ripe for being plundered.”

“It’s gotta be a little exciting, you know?” McCoy admitted sheepishly. “I’ve wondered, hell, I expect that almost everybody on the Enterprise has wondered, what having sex with a Vulcan, hell, with Spock, would be like. And, damn it, I have the chance to find out!” He bit his lips together. "Someday!"

“I knew you weren’t against this as adamantly as you were complaining.”

“I just wish it was Spock in his right mind instead of Spock thinking that half of him is a goat.”

“Well,” Kirk said with a shrug. “I suppose it wasn’t too difficult for him to imagine being a goat. After all, he already is a hybrid. Being a satyr wouldn’t be such a stretch. He’d just be a different kind of hybrid.”

“I never thought of it that way.” McCoy hoisted himself off the biobed. “Well, if my physician allows it, I’m going back to my quarters now and get some beauty sleep.”

Chapel turned around. “I heard that, Doctor, and I approve. Surely you can’t get into too much trouble in your own quarters.” Then she looked skeptical about what she was saying. “I hope.”

“Oh, ye of little faith--”

“You don’t have too much room to talk, Dr. McCoy. I’ve seen some powerful evidence against you.”

“Let’s get out of here, Jim,” McCoy muttered around the side of his mouth.

“I don’t have to sneak out the door,” Kirk said. “Thanks, Christine.”

Chapel smiled at him. “Your welcome, Captain Kirk.” She nodded at McCoy. “Help him stay out of trouble, will you?”

Kirk grinned back. “You’re asking a lot, Christine.”

“I know,” she said with a sigh. “But I was hoping that someone had some control over him.”

McCoy and Kirk left the sickbay.

“Damn, impertinent woman!” McCoy growled.

“Yeah, and you’re proud of her,” Kirk noted.

McCoy grinned. “Yeah, I am. She’s getting more like me every day.”

“Well, she’d be learning from the best.”

“Thank you.” McCoy sighed deeply. “Well, the bullshitting is out of the way, but our problem with Spock is still looming on the horizon.”

“That it is,” Kirk agreed.

“I suppose I’ll be trying that rendezvous with him again tomorrow.”

“Whenever you feel up to it, Bones.”

“Might as well get it over with,” McCoy huffed. He was nervous with an unknown dread of the future. What would Spock be like in the sack, really? That would make anyone apprehensive. But underneath, he was feeling an excitement that he hoped Jim didn't pick up on.

McCoy sure as hell wasn’t fighting his prospects very much, Kirk noted. In fact, he seemed more than eager. But who could blame him, with a satyr like Spock waiting for him.


	4. The Satyr Sighed

The satyr sighed. He hated to admit it, but he was bored. Was this what living on Mount Olympus amounted to? Just roaming through the open woods and enchanted forests and communing with the gods and goddesses on Mount Olympus? Was that it? It had seemed so satisfying at first, but surely there was some purpose behind it besides just the roaming and the experiencing. Didn’t the knowledge gained also have to be applied before it had any value?

A life like that had always sounded so rewarding when he’d first learned of it from books. The satyr frowned. Hadn’t that been where he’d first learned of Mount Olympus? From books (whatever they were)? From books brought to Vulcan (wherever THAT was) by somebody’s Earthling mother? How did that kind of mother differ from a traditional Ionic mother, he wanted to know. At some point in his life, talking about nature and philosophy and higher subjects had sounded like a wonderful way to live life. Although, now, he could not quite recall when that time had been. And now he was even beginning to wonder WHERE that life had been lived.

He seemed to have no history. But maybe that came from this idealistic life style that was his now. There was a feeling of no beginning or no ending here near Mount Olympus, just of a feeling of a forever NOW. He felt as if he had literally dropped from the heavens (which Spock had literally done when he had taken his drunken spill).

Birds sang sweetly in the treetops and flitted from branch to branch in their joy for living. They were a momentary flash of color in the green patchwork of leafy trees above him. The satyr felt a kinship with the leaves on the trees because they were the same color as his skin. He had noticed that the skin of other residents on Mount Olympus had a wide variety of colors: red, yellow, brown, black, even the occasional pink person with enchanting pink eyes to match. But nobody else had green tinted skin. He therefore felt a kinship with the trees because of his coloration. Maybe, in some distant past, his ancestors had been tree dwellers or even the leaves themselves. He did not know. But he had a love for the trees and felt safe and secure whenever he was near them.

He loved the meadow that bordered on his patch of woodland, also. Wildflowers and strange varieties of grasses grew in the tangle of vegetation beneath his sandal-clad feet. Life vibrated from that sweet tangle of plants, and the satyr loved the feelings of industry and vibrancy that thrummed there. He liked to watch the tiny animal life that scurried among the roots of all that wild vegetation. So much life survived in this grassy world.

But he knew he was not a part of the world of vegetation, either. Not really. 

The communing with the true gods and true goddesses of Mount Olympus had not been all that he had hoped for, either. Yes, they talked about philosophy and higher thoughts. But, no, they were not saints. They did not lead perfect lives. They seemed shallow and vain and thought only of themselves. And their dealings with human beings were scandalous. Generally, if they were not trying to trick or kill each other, they tried to convince humans to have sex with them. And if that didn’t happen, they would trick the humans into intimate relations. Higher beings should not do any of those terrible things to their adoring subjects. They were devious with humans, not kindly or protective, at all. Why then worship a god system that did not nurture the mere mortals that held the gods so in awe?

And the lifestyle of the gods and goddesses seemed impractical to the satyr. They seemed to live in a vacuum with a never-never world feeling about it. They were a point in time that never moved. They were static, so they would surely become dated when the mortals moved on with their thinking and their reasoning. The gods would be ever-fresh, but forever stuck.

Maybe the satyr thought too much for a satyr. Surely, it was not in any of the plans of the gods for satyrs to think. All that satyrs were good for was to tend the goats when need be and to tend to wood nymphs when the opportunity arose. Those opportunities generally arose about the time that a satyr’s penis elevated itself. 

Ah, now the satyr remembered! He needed to take his mind off the staid, static, impossible world of the gods and assume his position with the lesser beings where he was meant to be. 

And now he remembered the wood nymph who had become the passion of his life. Nymphs were notoriously promiscuous when it came to sexual matters. But the one who ruled the heart of the satyr might be a dyrad, the dweller of trees, the shyer wood nymph cousin of the sensuous nymphs. The satyr did not know for certain about the identity of the creature who possessed his heart and fired his loins. All he knew was that he must possess the fair maiden in white, the lissome, the maddening, the changeable, the exotic, the passionate, the twining, the doe-eyed, the, the, the….

The satyr could not breathe for his passion. Where was the creature who claimed his heart? He raised his flute and tried to trill a few notes. Better, oh, so much better, but would it be perfect enough for his beloved to dance to? Would his playing win her heart and her love? Would she dance for him and fire him with a passion that would consume the both of them? Would he be a good enough satyr for his nymph?

That question had burned within him earlier today as he had been wondering alone in the fields when suddenly he had come across her asleep. He had observed the object of his affection reclining on a hillock, and he had been consumed with passion. She had come to him as he had wished! The gods were good to him, after all! Still, there were those two men in their strange clothing who came to him outside the temple. They seemed so friendly and so personable, as if they had known him in another life. The one who seemed to be the leader had pledged that the nymph would come to the satyr. And there she was! Reclining on her hillock! So perfect, so serene, so beautiful. Perhaps the gods had not performed the miracle, after all. Perhaps it had been the work of the men in the strange clothing. Or perhaps the gods had sent them to perform the miracle! That was it! The gods had sent the men! Because gods were all-powerful!

But at that moment, the satyr did not care who was responsible, just that the miracle had happened. The nymph was here, for the pleasure of the satyr. And alone, and unprotected, and, oh, so vulnerable!

The satyr raised the flute to his lips and drew his breath in to begin the music that would awaken the nymph and inspire her to dance for him, just for him. The soft notes rose in the wind and wended their way toward the sleeping nymph. The music floated around her body lying there so sensuously, the music that would finally disturb her blessed dreams. The nymph undulated her body in time to the music, for she heard it in her dreams. However, if the music ended now and she awakened, she would not remember the playing of the flute. But now her body heard, and her body responded. Each motion of hers was liquid poetry to the satyr. Anytime now, the nymph would awaken and rise on her slender legs to dance for him, just for him. And he would come to her and consummate their ethereal love for each other.

But off to the side, a beast of the fields came lumbering into the line of vision for the satyr. The gods had sent another suitor for the nymph! The satyr was too late! It must be a god in disguise!

The satyr watched as the beast god lumbered up to the nymph and bellowed at her. The nymph awakened and began a strange courtship dance to music that only the nymph and the beast god could hear. First one and then the other advanced and retreated. The beast god followed the nymph into the woods, then suddenly they re-emerged from the woods with the nymph following the beast god. The two must have angered some other gods, though, for the new gods were chasing the nymph and the beast god. When last seen, the mixed assemblage was headed down the hill toward a stream of water. Perhaps they were going to consult the water nymphs known as naiad or Nereid. Perhaps the god of the waters would even marry the nymph and the beast god. 

At any rate, the satyr had lost his chance today. He would try again tomorrow and the day after that one, though, because nymphs could be fickle. His beloved nymph in white might throw aside the beast god which she had chosen today and be ready to hear the flute playing from the satyr and for his embrace.

In the meanwhile, he would practice his flute playing. 

Maybe some day his flute playing would be enough for her. 

Maybe some day she would finally dance for him. 

Just for him.

And then he would claim the love meant for him from the gods.

 

 

So the next day found McCoy in a new, white, gauzy dress stretched out on ‘his’ hillock at the edge of the forest that bordered on the meadow near the Greek temple on Narsarya B. Sunlight dappled him as before as he waited for his appointment with ‘his’ satyr. He was both excited and dreading the fateful meeting that would surely come soon.

Christine Chapel and Nyota Uhura had not been as cheerful or as helpful or as encouraging as they had been when they’d fitted the first white, gauzy dress on him and applied his makeup. This time, they seemed rougher when they had dressed his fake hair with elaborate curls and had woven moon drop flowers through his trailing locks. He sat really still for them, though, especially when they applied his makeup. He didn‘t want to look like something that could stop the stoutest heart from beating, and he knew that women could do that with their makeup tricks. 

McCoy really couldn‘t blame Christine and Nyota. They had a reason to gripe. It hadn’t been their fault that he’d been startled by a bull and disturbed a hive of honeybees which had necessitated a rather messy and unceremonious dip in creek water for him and the alarmed bull. 

Of course, it hadn’t been McCoy’s fault, either, but he figured that he was better off not making that point to the ladies at the present moment. Never anger someone who is messing with your clothing or your hair or your makeup. It cannot go well for you if you do. McCoy might be dumb, but he certainly wasn’t stupid. Besides, he wanted these ladies in his corner. He might have to come to them with other ‘girly’ problems, especially after he’d finally had a session with the satyr Spock. Who knew what Spock had done to enhance himself in that area.

At least, he hoped that he might have to come to the ladies with other ‘girly’ problems. The prospects of what all of that might encompass still made his heart palpitate. McCoy liked both the aching dread and the happy anticipation that a rendezvous with the Spock satyr might mean for him.

What McCoy didn’t like was that everybody important to him on the Enterprise crew knew all about his upcoming rendezvous with Spock. It had to be an avid topic of conversation over meals and during lulls in his fellow crew mates' busy days.

When had McCoy’s life turned into a soap opera, he wondered? No, he reconsidered. It was more of a farce.

McCoy soon grew tired of just lying on his hillock. It was a nice hillock and indented just enough so he could lie comfortably. A severely rounded hillock might allow the one lying on it to roll off too readily. It was in partial shade from the nearby trees. However, it was not in deep shade nor was it in direct sunlight. A dappled pattern from the wind-rustled leaves would throw a very pretty light on the reclining resident of the hillock in a fetching manner. Then McCoy wondered if other wood nymphs had claimed this hillock for other rendezvous. He felt a possessive ownership of the earthy knob. Just let some other wood nymph try to take his hillock!

After his possessive rant had passed, McCoy got bored again. What was keeping Spock, anyway? If he was still practicing that damn flute, in time he’d be ready for the metropolitan orchestra, but nothing else. Because McCoy would be long gone. Even he had his limits about how long he would wait. He knew he was a champion at waiting. He’d spent a large part of his life waiting. But after awhile, even McCoy could take a hint. Even McCoy could eventually understand that Spock was more interested in playing the flute than in playing with McCoy.

McCoy stood and stretched the kinks out of his legs. He had been lying there awhile, but hadn’t realized how long it had been. He began his warming up exercises without really thinking about it. He raised his right arm and arced it over his head toward the ground on his left side. That felt pretty good, so he raised his left arm and arced it over his head toward his right foot.

He looked up at the arm high over his head. Hmm, he hadn’t noticed how the strips of material attached to his elbow and to his wrist billowed out so prettily whenever he moved his arm. Wonder how the right arm looked? It fluttered nicely, too. And the white material fluttered and sparkled in the bright sunlight. Hmm. That was pretty.

Not only that, McCoy felt pretty. He lifted the hem of his skirts with both hands and whirled. Chiffon was such a delicious fabric to wear! It made him feel pretty! And it was him, too! He was pretty! He felt pretty! So pretty! Nature loved him, and so did he! Because he was, he said as he whirled, so pretty! From the kohl on his eyes to his full, red lips to his shapely legs shod in the native sandals that laced halfway up his legs towards his knees, McCoy felt not only pretty, but felt beautiful, also. It was every wood nymph’s right to feel pretty in her life, and now was her time to feel pretty. Because a male was coming to keep a tryst with her, and he would make her feel beautiful!

The folds of the chiffon in the gathered skirt fluttered around his legs as he turned. Yet all the while, the material that fell from his waist clung to his hips and molded them to perfection, exposing and emphasizing his alluring curves. What a delicious dress had been sewn for him by his loving friends! They had known in their hearts how beautiful that he had wished to look for his satyr!

McCoy raised both of his arms over his head and laughed into the oxygen-rich air. He went through a series of undulating twists and turns just because it felt so good to be able to do so. How alluring were the shapes that he made in the air! How the sleeves on his arms fluttered like some sort of fettered birds that could not be freed from their restraints. He hooked his fingers through each other and raised and lowered his arms as if they were waves on the ocean. Raised and lowered. Raised and lowered. What rhythm! How entrancing!

He moved to the music playing in his mind, music that he had heard once, recently, but he could not remember where. But it was in his mind now and in his feet and in his upraised hands and in his body undulating in the gentle breezes of the new day. And he was graceful and charming and alluring! And, oh, so beautiful, so very, very beautiful! And desirable! 

Then he remembered the steps of the dance he had practiced, the Sikinnis, the dance of the satyr, the dance of forbidden love, of unleashed passion, of ancient yearnings that had plagued mankind long before recorded history. And it would continue to plague mankind into the eons of eternity. For it was the rhythm of Life, and it kept Life moving along. And the steps of the dance seemed to follow the music in his mind perfectly.

He formed his hands and arms into their starting positions, then led with his right foot to start the dance. As he dipped and swayed to music he could only hear in his head, he became lighter on his feet. His upper body undulated on his hips as if he were water weeds that grow on the floor of streams and that undulate to the ebb and flow of the water around them. It was the hidden rhythm that he had learned from the water weeds and retold through the music in his head. The music had an exotic, oriental sound to it, and McCoy thought of the Mideast on Terran and the mysterious people who resided there. And the music in his head caught him and whirled him as his body answered the primitive melody with erotic movements that only lovers would recognize.

And then McCoy realized that the exotic music was not in his head alone. It was a flute playing high above the soft wind sloughing through the meadow and into the woods.

Spock! It had to be Spock playing! But where was he?!

McCoy realized all of this information quickly enough not to break his exotic dancing. For he somehow knew if he would stop dancing, then Spock would disappear back into the trees and the magic playing of the flute would stop. Spock would melt into the shadows, and the music would exist only in McCoy’s mind again and in the sloughing of the wind.

McCoy nearly made a misstep, then quickly covered his error and went on dancing. For McCoy had spotted Spock. He was standing just inside the woods in the shadow of a leafy tree. And his playing was superb. The notes were rich and rang purely in the clean country air. Spock’s practicing had paid off. Well, at least for the flute playing, McCoy conceded. Hard telling about how Spock had fared with perfecting other skills. McCoy hoped that he’d be part of the jury when it came time to judge that ability. But now, McCoy had to concentrate on his dancing.

Dip and whirl. Turn. Dip and whirl. Turn. Arms up in the air and let the sleeves flutter. Look up into the sparkling sunlight, throw your head back, hold your arms our and whirl without getting dizzy. Stop suddenly. Clasp your hands together toward your knees, then rear back and let your happiness show with a broad, lusty smile. Then dip and whirl. Turn. Dip and whirl. Turn. 

And do it over and over and over again in time to the lilt of the flute playing lightly on the air. Let the love in you and on you show like a beacon to anyone thirsty enough to be in need of your sustenance. For you are nourishment, you are life-giving, you are life. And you want to share that life with the player of the flute whose sounds float so magically on the air, guiding you, grooming you, preparing you. 

Hold out your arms to the player of the flute and beckon and beckon and beckon. Thread your fingers through the air, and beckon, beckon. Come to me. I will give you my sustenance. Come to me. I will give to you my all. I am the earth and all that is good about the flowering trees and the wind that cools your fevered brow. Come to me. Come to me now. And I will promise you the love that is in my arms, my heart, and my fevered loins. Come to me, my beloved. Come. 

Come. And I will teach you to play with an instrument that will give you more satisfaction than your magic flute. For I am magic itself, and we will be magical together. Here in your garden, here in your grove, here on my hillock, we will be the universe for each other. And the stars and the moon will shine in the daytime. And we will put the light from all of them to shame with the radiance from the joining of our bodies.

Come, my beloved. Come. Come to me and melt into me. Come. Come. I await you.

The playing of the flute stopped suddenly, but McCoy whirled in ecstasy for a few more frenzied steps. Then he, too, stopped abruptly, confused. He blinked in the sudden brightness of the sunlight. For the brightness now came from a different source than McCoy, and the day seemed suddenly dim for McCoy.

McCoy looked at the spot in the shade of the tree where he knew Spock had been standing. But the spot was now empty and looked as lonesome as McCoy suddenly felt.

And he felt tawdry and cheap and tired. Hell, he was tired. More tired than he had ever been. His hillock looked comfortable and inviting. The indentation looked so sheltering and protective. Surely, it would be okay if he lay down on it and rested for awhile. Then he could return to Jim Kirk and report that he had failed again.

Even McCoy’s pretty skirts felt limp and tired as he slogged toward his hillock and crumpled down on it with a sigh.

The wood nymph needed her beauty sleep, and her hillock and woodland and meadow would sustain her. And it was a good thing. She needed reassurances right now. She needed to return to nature. She needed to return to her hillock. She needed rest, so that maybe nature could heal her, as only nature, and time, can.

The heart of the wood nymph was breaking inside her, but she was the only one who knew.


	5. You Are So Beautiful, So Very Beautiful

Once again, the warm day lulled McCoy to sleep, and once again, something blowing hot breath in his face awakened him. But no bull was disturbing his rest this time, at least not the four-legged kind.

McCoy felt a hand fumbling with the top of his chiton. The hand seemed to be shaking, but McCoy might have imagined it.

“You are so beautiful,” McCoy thought he heard, but he might have imagined that, also. “So very beautiful. The gods have been good to me. They have sent you to me, my beautiful lady. I am in awe.”

McCoy tried to slip back into slumber because his hillock was so comfortable, but that hand and that voice, imaginary or not, were somehow calling to him.

“That better not be Theodore and his snotty muzzle,” McCoy mumbled. “Especially if the cows were unable to satisfy him. I‘m sure not interested in that much action.”

“Who is Theodore?”

McCoy opened his eyes, and there was Spock as McCoy had pictured him: brown, furry leggings, a naked chest with dark hair matting it, horns curving away from the tops of his temples, and a flute grasped in his one hand.

“Has some other satyr been seeing you?” Spock demanded as he withdrew his hand from McCoy‘s chest.

“Relax. You have nothing to worry about.” McCoy glared up at Spock. “But you cannot say who I can see or cannot see. That is my business.”

“It is my business, too. You are mine.”

“I beg to differ.” McCoy turned aside, acting peeved. “I am my own wood nymph.”

“Come on, now. Do not be that way, my sweet one,“ Spock cajoled with what he thought was a winsome smile. It looked more like the leer produced when someone realized that cold soda pop had found an exposed nerve among his teeth. 

Spock was conciliatory and worshipful, and McCoy realized that he had somehow gotten the upper hand in this relationship. Certain of her man, McCoy did what women have done since the time of their Mother Eve. McCoy decided to make the contrite male grovel.

Spock continued, “I have come all this way just to see you.” 

McCoy checked his fingernails. “I didn’t ask you to.” 

“But you know I could not stay away from your loveliness.”

“That’s what all the satyrs say,” McCoy mumbled with a bored sigh.

“What satyrs?! What other satyrs have you been seeing?!”

“As I said before, that is none of your business!”

“And I say that it is my business. I saw you with the beast god.“

McCoy frowned. “What beast god?“

“Yesterday. He awakened you. You were coy with him and he followed you into the woods. Then you chased him out of the woods and down the hill. What did you want with that massive creature?“ Spock demanded.

McCoy heard the jealousy in Spock’s voice, but waved away Spock’s assumption. “Oh, that was just a lot of bull.“

“Do not dismiss my accusations so quickly.”

“I meant--” McCoy tried to explain about the bull, but Spock would not allow it.

“I know what my eyes saw. You chose the beast god. You went to a secluded bower with him. The river gods gave you sanctuary. That was wrong for you to do.”

And that was the wrong thing to say to McCoy. Hell, he didn’t want any bull or beast god or whatever in the hell that creature had been that had wrecked his yesterday and his beautiful first dress. But nobody made demands of his personal affections. Nobody told McCoy; he was asked.

“You cannot tell me who I can spend time with.”

“Yes, I can. You are mine.”

McCoy glared up at him. “What makes you think that I am yours?”

“Because I desire you.”

“You’d desire any maiden who was lying all defenseless and tempting out on a hillock near the woods.”

“No, it is you, my wood nymph. Only you, my Leonarda.”

McCoy stopped examining his polished nails. “Leonarda? My name is Leonarda?”

“Yes.”

“How did you know my name when I--”

“Yes?”

When I didn’t know my name myself, McCoy thought.

“How did you come up with that? I mean--”

“It has always been Leonarda, in my mind,” Spock answered wistfully. Then he rallied himself. “It is the feminine form of Leonard.”

“The feminine form of Leonard?” McCoy echoed.

“Yes. Leonard. It is the most perfect name that there is. It is Dr. McCoy‘s given name.”

“Do you have a thing for Leonard McCoy?”

Spock shrugged. “Dr. McCoy is very dedicated to his profession. He does not have time or inclination for anything like romance, especially with me.”

“How do you know that?! Have you asked Dr. McCoy about his feelings about you?”

“Alas, I am too shy. Besides, he is not interested in me. I am nothing but a mere satyr, and he is a mighty doctor and space explorer. I have this woods and this meadow and the nearby temple, and he has the universe!”

McCoy had never thought of himself in those terms before. Through the satyr‘s eyes, he was a giant ten feet tall. “You’ll never know until you try. You need to approach him about your feelings.”

“I do?”

“Yes, you do.” 

“Will that not cause jealousy in you?“

For one crazy moment, McCoy realized that he was somehow in a romantic competition with himself. He and he (as Leonarda) and Spock made a classic love triangle. Then another thought struck him. “Somehow I thought that a satyr would be more physical and less cerebral. You know, just ram, bam, thank you, ma‘am. And then on to the next wood nymph.”

Spock rallied. “I can be any way that you desire me to be, my Leonarda,” Spock said as his hand ‘accidentally’ brushed the hem of the chiton and dragged it up over McCoy’s knee.

“Watch it there, my frisky boy,” McCoy corrected in a girlish, yet firm voice as his hand pushed his skirt and Spock’s hand down.

Spock bent forward to lean over McCoy. McCoy drew back, but there wasn’t much room to scoot on his hillock. And the satyr was looming in a most lewd and threatening and all-consuming manner.

Spock braced himself on one hand near McCoy’s shoulder and used his other hand to cover McCoy’s hand which lay on his abdomen.

“You have a most pleasant hillock here, my Leonarda,” Spock said in a very charming and cultured voice. His smile was all-knowing and wise and very much intended for McCoy’s benefit. “It is a suitable frame for your exquisite beauty.”

“I bet you say that to all of the nymphs.”

Spock frowned. “I do not know any other nymphs.” He looked back at McCoy. “You are the only nymph in my heart.”

“You better be, you naughty boy,” McCoy said as he ran his hand up and down Spock‘s arm. “I can be a very jealous girl,” he said as he batted his lacquered eyelashes.

Spock’s eyes sparked with interest. “Oh, you show zeal. I like that in a nymph.” Spock looked thoughtful. “I think.”

“I’m a regular little pepper pot, you big ox,” McCoy muttered.

“Hmm?” Spock asked with a pleasant smile.

“I saw you, you know,” McCoy offered with just a tone of rebuke in his voice. “I saw you playing your flute so that I could dance.”

“Your movements were so beautiful. I was enchanted with your dancing.”

“Why didn’t you come to me when I was dancing then? I was enjoying your flute playing so much. Why did you leave?” McCoy asked as he messed with the top of Spock’s hand and drew half-hearted circles on it. He glanced up coquettishly, then down just that quickly. He drew another hasty circle. “Hmm?”

“I was overwhelmed. By your beauty. It was too much to take in. I had to calm my heart down and collect my thoughts.”

“My dancing had that much effect on you?”

“Your dancing and your beauty. You are so perfect.”

What the hell?! Spock could get used to someone telling him nice things like this. This big boy needed to be thanked for being so nice. “Why don’t you come closer and let me taste your wares?” McCoy invited in coy, breathless tones as he batted his lacquered eyelashes again. Damn, he needed an award for this performance!

Spock looked confused. He didn’t know which of his wares he was supposed to bring forward for tasting. His nymph hadn’t stipulated.

McCoy hooked Spock’s head with one arm and brought it down close to his own. “Kiss me, you damn fool! Make me see stars in the daytime!”

So Spock did.

He pressed his lips against McCoy’s for a few breathless moments, and McCoy indeed saw stars. Not because it was that great of a kiss, but because Spock was doing the kissing. Damn, McCoy had been waiting for this and hadn’t admitted it until now!

McCoy lifted his head and gave Spock a meaningful look. “Not bad, for samples. Now, do you suppose you can give me the main course?”

“Alright.” And with that, Spock scooped McCoy up into his arms so that their lips hit hard enough to hurt.

“Humpf!” McCoy complained, but Spock thought that McCoy was encouraging him and grasped him tighter.

“Oh, hell!” McCoy managed to mutter against Spock’s lips, then opened his mouth further to see if Spock could figure out what to do with that presentation.

Spock could.

Oh, hell, Spock’s tongue WAS raspy! McCoy had always maintained that it was, but had had no positive proof up until this very moment. And, oh, yeah, he could testify for damn sure now! A Vulcan tongue was raspy! And talented!

Yes, Spock, I’ve had my tonsils out, but if you don’t believe me, go ahead. Find out for yourself. Penetrate as far as you desire with that damn raspy tongue.

So Spock did.

McCoy moaned. Depend on the Vulcan to find an erogenous zone in his mouth that McCoy didn’t realize he had. Damn place tingled and sparked and satisfied as well as stroking the prostate. And if Spock stroked that spot in McCoy’s mouth once more, then McCoy was going to lose his ability to pucker for good. His mouth would forevermore be open and lax and draining. And waiting for that damn Vulcan to bring it to life again with the power from his bowel-loosening lips.

Vulcans could kiss like that?!

McCoy pulled away and pressed his forehead against Spock’s. It was solid there. His fingertips teased the short hair along the back of Spock’s neck and registered the warmth of Spock‘s skin beneath them.

McCoy sucked in one huge lungful of air after another, but felt like he would never catch up on his oxygen levels again. His world might indeed consist of a carbon dioxide cloud after that kiss. He might become one with the trees, with the forest for eternity, if Spock and his wonderful lips were his woodsman.

“Yeah, that was, ah, pretty good, Vulcan,” McCoy said and swallowed hard. Thank goodness for that reassuring forehead to lean against. He felt like he had an anchor there. 

“Vulcan?” Spock echoed.

McCoy thought quickly. “Isn’t that your name, satyr?”

Spock looked confused. “I do not know.”

McCoy decided to drop that line of questioning. “What else do you want to do now that you‘ve got me in this position? Hmm, bad boy? Hmm?” McCoy whispered and wondered where his bad boy satyr was hiding. At this rate, McCoy was going to have to give him an illustrated lecture. Where was a computer with YouTube when you needed it?

Spock’s hand landed on McCoy’s chest and he squeezed hard.

“What the hell?!” McCoy protested as he lunged upright. “That hurt!”

“Too hard?”

“Too damn rough! I don’t have breasts!”

“Yes, you do, there are just not filled out. For instance, here is a nipple that can be stimulated.” To prove it, he gently tweaked the little protrusion with two fingers.

McCoy doubled over and screamed. He’d felt that electrical shock all through his system. If he’d had a vagina, it would’ve been sufficiently self-lubricated by that tweak to have taken on ten oversexed satyrs.

“Are you alright, Leonarda,” Spock asked with alarm. “You turned pale and then bright red. I did not know what color you would turn next.”

McCoy shot to his feet and pointed in no direction in particular. McCoy didn‘t care, as long as it was away from him. “Out! Get out! Away from my hillock!”

“I must have you, my Leonarda. Here on your hillock.”

“No!” McCoy started to turn away. “My hillock is not meant for that!” He was beginning to feel very possessive of his property: his hillock, his nipple, his self-lubricated vagina that he really didn’t possess. “It, it, it, it is sacred!”

Spock grabbed McCoy’s arm and forced McCoy back down on his back. “I will have you. Now. On or off your hillock. You will be mine. Now!”

Well, hell, McCoy thought. If you can’t fight them, join them. Besides, he’d gotten a glimpse in passing of Spock’s lower regions. The satyr was ready for action, and McCoy suddenly did not want to miss out on that.

“Well, since you put it that way.” McCoy arranged himself prettily on his hillock and threw one arm dramatically over his eyes. “Be gentle. That‘s all I ask.” 

McCoy had taken himself out of active participation, and that stymied his suitor.

Neither the satyr nor Spock knew how to proceed. 

McCoy finally got tired of waiting. He drew his parted knees up so that his feet with sandals were flat on the ground. His skirts fell in a gracious heap around his belly and between his bare thighs. “Oh, my savage satyr, I cannot deny you, any longer! I am powerless before you!” he murmured. “Take me! I am yours!”

A maiden subdued and conquered, offering herself to the mighty victor.

Still nothing.

Oh, hell!

“Put your hand under my skirt,” McCoy directed and Spock complied. “Way under my skirt. That’s it. No. Further back.” Further back, so the satyr wouldn’t wonder why a maiden had gonads. McCoy’s penis could be taped to his abdomen, but the balls were kind of stationary. And McCoy hadn’t entertained any ideas about their relocation, no matter how cute and clever Jim Kirk thought he was being with his suggestions.

McCoy jerked as fingers not his own scratched at his anus. “Yeah, that’s the spot.” He felt Spock’s hand groping him. “Like what you’re feeling, big guy?”

Spock had a stupid look on his face as he nodded his head vigorously.

“Then… do what comes naturally!” McCoy instructed from deep within the depths of his arm and bit his lips together. The damn Vulcan was sure as hell clumsy. But McCoy was starting to feel the results of all of that groping, despite Spock’s clumsiness. In fact, McCoy was starting to vibrate.

“Ah….” Spock wondered aloud with a puzzled look.

“Yes, my satyr?”

“Where are your lips?” 

“Up here on my face, right where they've always been,” McCoy answered before he realized that Spock meant the second pair that females have around their vaginas. 

“Uh….” Spock muttered, trying to be diplomatic with further inquiry.

“You will have to forgive me,” McCoy said in a tragic voice. “I am not perfect for you. I am deformed.” He peeked under his elbow to see if Spock was buying it.

“You are perfect just the way you are,” Spock answered without hesitation. “For you are my Leonarda.”

McCoy melted. After saying that, Spock could do anything he wanted to do with McCoy. McCoy would allow anything, now. How could he not? It was obvious that some part of Spock loved him and had loved him for some time. He just had never had any way to express himself. Well, now he’d figured out a humdinger of a way, if he could only get everything synchronized.

“I need to be closer to you,” McCoy murmured.

Spock didn’t need a second hint. He dove between McCoy’s legs, hooked McCoy’s thighs just above his bent knees, and pulled McCoy down toward him. McCoy could feel his skirts sliding up as his body slid down. He used his free hand to anchor the fabric over his penis. He wanted the illusion to go on as long as possible.

Then McCoy could feel Spock’s eager hands on both sides of his anus. McCoy grunted as slick fingers dove into his anus and spread it open. A little more finesse there would be appreciated, he thought. He didn‘t want to have to treat the area around his anus for infection gotten from fingernail scratches. 

Then the inside of McCoy’s anal canal was exposed to air, but McCoy knew that wouldn’t last too long. Not the way that Spock was clawing at him.

Then a cool greasiness was being worked inside him. That’s lubricant, he wanted to yell. The Ancient Greeks never had lube! But maybe he could endure that one small anachronism for the sake of comfort.

Then one of Spock’s hands reached up and was grabbing at McCoy’s nipples. The Vulcan seemed to be a tit man on a body that did not have mammary protrusions. Spock was doing a clumsy job of it, and the dress material was irritating McCoy’s skin. But the double stimulation of Spock’s one hand digging at his nipples and the fingers of the other hand stretching his hole at last did their work on McCoy. In no time at all, he was gasping with arousal and need.

By the time Spock shoved himself between McCoy’s legs, McCoy didn’t care whether Spock’s hands were rubbing his nipples raw through the gauzy material of the dress or an electric sander with a dull blade was scrapping at his breasts. McCoy didn’t care if that damn dress got ripped or dirty. In fact, he preferred that the dress would be lying a distance from him. Maybe a few feet from his hillock. Anywhere, but on his body. But McCoy owed it to Uhura and Chapel to keep the illusion of looking like a wood nymph.

Spock must have been wanting a better angle or deeper penetration because he lifted McCoy’s legs and hooked McCoy’s ankles over his shoulders. That action brought McCoy sliding even further down to Spock so that McCoy’s upper thighs were lying on top of Spock’s upper thighs. If McCoy sat up now, he would straddle Spock’s lap. But neither wanted that. McCoy knew that Spock had other plans for them.

Then when Spock lifted McCoy’s buttocks and shoved himself inside McCoy, McCoy felt something snap and blossom within himself. How he had hungered for this very thing to happen between him and Spock. For how long now, he did not know. Finally it had happened, and it was everything that McCoy could have imagined for himself. But McCoy also knew that in Spock’s mind it was only a satyr and his wood nymph having relations, not Spock and McCoy.

At last McCoy could control his emotion no longer. Spock’s rhythm and probing were too intense. McCoy felt the passion building in him and knew that he could control his passion for only so long. His body was going to announce the glory he was experiencing, and nothing could stop it. Then his release came shooting up through his body as his stomach received the love offering from his own taut, manacled penis. McCoy felt his hunger and fulfillment exploding around him in a haze of ecstasy, and he hollered his approval so all the world would know that he had been born again through sex.

“Spock!”

And with that cry, Spock exploded, also.

But as the haze cleared for Spock, a strange thing happened.

“Doctor?” Spock questioned as he looked down at McCoy. “Why are you lying there? In a dress?” He checked himself over and his position in relationship to McCoy’s body. “What have I done?!” Spock demanded. “What have I done to you, Dr. McCoy?!”

With that plea for understanding came sanity back to McCoy. He looked up at the grieving Vulcan.

“Why am I dressed in this strange attire, Doctor? What is happening?”

McCoy immediately sat up, although his hindquarters were hurting from the lusty activity that had so recently occurred inside him. He felt Spock’s cum seeping out of his rectum, but he had more important matters to clean up.

McCoy put a hand on Spock’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Spock. You’ll be okay now.”

“But-- I have had carnal congress with you!“

McCoy wanted to say, ‘You bet your green ass you had carnal congress with me,’ but McCoy figured Spock wasn’t as pleased with their recent activity as McCoy was.

“I do not understand, Doctor.”

“I know you don’t. You’ve been, well, ah, ill. We tried a different healing technique. Shock treatment, of a sort. You know who I am again, and you recognize yourself. That‘s all for the good.”

“Who did I think I was?”

“A satyr.”

“And what did I think you were?”

“A wood nymph. YOUR wood nymph. And you had to seduce me before the healing could happen.”

“I am sorry, Doctor.”

“It’s over. We’ll go on.”

No, we won’t, McCoy decided. He had liked that lusty activity with Spock. He wouldn‘t mind doing it again. And again.

“How could I do this to you, Doctor?” Spock asked in shame as he hung his head.

“You were hiding a secret, a secret that you didn’t want to tell me. It had to come out some way.” He rubbed Spock’s shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me that you had feelings for me? I might‘ve been interested, you know?”

“Because I had always made such a big point out of having no feelings.” He looked up with pain in his eyes. “Do you know how ridiculous I would have seemed to have succumbed to the greatest feeling of all? And for you?”

“Tell you what?” McCoy whispered as he stroked a thumb across Spock’s lips. “Why don’t we lie back on my hillock and talk it all over? Then I can tell you that I’ve had some feelings for you that I hadn’t admitted to, either.”

“You have?” Spock asked hopefully.

“That’s right,” McCoy reassured him with a gentle smile as he searched his eyes.

“And you will share your hillock with me?”

“Of course.“ McCoy wrapped his arms around Spock‘s shoulders. “And that’s not all that I am prepared to share with you, Vulcan,” McCoy assured him as he pulled Spock down on top of him as they settled blissfully on their hillock. 

Spending some time in Ancient Greece had suddenly gotten a whole lot more interesting.

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing of Star Trek, its characters, and/or its story lines.


End file.
